


eyes that see right through me.

by Icanwritesee



Series: anisotropy. [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adolescence, Graphic Description, Hints of Smut, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John is a good soul, M/M, Sherlock is a Mess, TW: Violence, moderately happy ending, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-09-22 05:09:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9584867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icanwritesee/pseuds/Icanwritesee
Summary: "it's just...", I said, lowering my eyes in shame. I shouldn't have listened to Jim. "and believe me when I say that I know just how ridiculous it sounds, but... I was afraid. for the first time in my life. and I'm not talking about rubbish like being scared of heights or spiders, no. I was afraid I would loseyou, John.""how so?""I've never had anything worth losing before. I didn't have something I would want to protect, however melodramatically and atypical for me it sounds. I know that I make an impression of someone who doesn't have emotions, but believe me, I used to think so myself, but you seem to be the only exception to all my rules."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [make a new name.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3592158) by [Icanwritesee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icanwritesee/pseuds/Icanwritesee). 



> hello, welcome to the last leg of my rewritten-from-Polish story!  
> you know the drill - my original work that's been translated from my native Polish, blahblahblah, as always, thanks to Darcie for beta-reading and telling me I will get through shit and stuff, always the deepest bows towards the hero of the story and the main reasons it came to existing - each and every one of you.  
> so. this particular story directly follows the previous one, the most angsty of angsty ones, but it's fine if you haven't read it for some reason. just know that Sherlock got into a very dark place, but he's slowly crawling towards light, like we saw him doing in HLV. it's going to get ugly towards the end, though. but fear not, that's not how I'll end it.
> 
> words, as always, belong to my beloved U2 and Zbigniew Herbert respectively, I'm only playing with them in case someone wanted to sue my sorry fangirl ass.

> _if we lose the ruins nothing will be left_

  
delicate pink threads of light on the walls suggested the dawn was close. the prolonged groan that came out of my throat made quite a stir in the room - John whipped his head from its temporary place that proved to be my hip. Mycroft, however, stood up from his chair and left even more stiffly than normally, quietly closing the door behind him. I think I could hear something about consulting the doctor too, but I wouldn't bet my money on it. the echo of the whole incident - not longer than a few seconds, mind - changed into a dull pain inside my skull that was already aching.

after the nauseaous feeling passed, I could focus better on what was happening. and John looked exhausted - I noticed the very defined shadows under his pretty eyes, and his hair and clothing in an atypical dissaray. I must've been out for more or less three days. and he hadn't left my bedside for a single moment.

"John...", I began with effort; my throat's gone too dry. but he spoke to me instead. or rather, his face told me everything about his most recent stress because he himself didn't utter a word. his whole figure screamed, and the view was enough to make me feel worse than before. I would rather if he just punched me.  
"not a word, understood?", he cut me off. I didn't think he would be able to articulate anything coherent through such strongly clenched jaws. "don't say a word. I don't want to listen to anything you have to say at the moment."  
I nodded. John Watson in the state of fury is not a John Watson a reasonable man would want to discuss things with. I think the last time I saw him in such agitation was the memorable evening of him throwing the pink porcelain we both hated.

all I could do was wait for the burst. so I did just that.

"there's only one thing...", he ground out. I counted to 30 in my mind, that's quick. there were days when his regrouping silence lasted for hours. "how, _the fuck_ , could you do this to me? did your enormous brain even realized what the fuck you were doing? how could all that end for you? what would I feel if you'd died? or did you delete _that too_ from your precious mind palace?"  
some invisible weight pressed my chest, making it hard to breathe. "John..."  
"don't say a word, I said. and I'm not talking right now about how they kicked you out of uni because of your newest game because you didn't bother attending the classes. which, while we're at it, I found out from _Mycroft_ of all people because you didn't consider me trustworthy enough to tell yourself. I'll also drop a veil of silence on the fact that Jim Moriarty has become your best pal in the last months. interesting if one remembers you told me that he made your skin crawl no longer than five months ago."

in the confined space of a hospital room his bitter laughter sounded unnatural. inanimately. I felt my stomach turning once more; the remorse was overwhelming. "John, please..."  
"I swear to God, if you jump in once more, I'll forget about where we are right now and beat the shit out of you, Holmes. your own family won't be able to recognize you when I'm done."

I swallowed. the awful taste in my mouth was still there. John shook violently; I wanted to touch him so much I ached all over. I wanted to do anything at all to make his suffering go away. "...I can understand it somehow, more or less if I try really hard. what I can't get with my limited idiot's minds, is why. why did you do it to yourself? was it because of me? when did I make that mistake?"  
I didn't dare answering him. "...I started to think about all that and came to realization that any of this wouldn't happen if I didn't enlist. if I didn't leave. I shouldn't have left you on your own."  
and I have to admit that I understood less and less of what he was saying, mostly because of the persistent pain I felt.  
"...that's why I decided to change something."  
"what?", I asked, unable to stop myself. "what did you decide?"  
"you have to go to the rehab, Sherlock.", he said. he wasn't spitting venomous words anymore, and he sounded more calm. "but I can't leave you here on your own. when I'm done with my first year, I'm going to ask for the transfer closer home, for you to be able to see me every week. but you have to cut off any form of contact with Jim and all his shit. you have all the rest of your life before you, you can't just leave like that. surely, you know how much you mean to me..."

his last sentence laid decidedly closer to question than statement. and John looked like someone who lost everything. I hesitated for a second before I covered his tanned hand with my own pale one. luckily, he didn't shift, only sighed deeply, as if he was releasing a breath of poisonous air from his lungs.

"it's just...", I said, lowering my eyes in shame. I shouldn't have listened to Jim. "and believe me when I say that I know just how ridiculous it sounds, but... I was afraid. for the first time in my life. and I'm not talking about rubbish like being scared of heights or spiders, no. I was afraid I would lose _you_ , John."  
"how so?"  
"I've never had anything worth losing before. I didn't have something I would want to protect, however melodramatically and atypical for me it sounds. I know that I make an impression of someone who doesn't have emotions, but believe me, I used to think so myself, but you seem to be the only exception to all my rules."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "could you stop it? watching you deducing is physically painful.", Mycroft rolled his eyes at me.  
> "could you stop bringing your dog to my flat? imagining the things you do to each other is worse than listening to the music John persists on calling classic.", I made a face while Mycroft pursed his lips, but didn't take the bait.  
> 1:0, fatso.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!
> 
> so, this chapter is unbetaed, but I can go through it at some point. if anything really bothers you, please let me know. um. no idea how did I write that smutty thing, but I think it appeared and demanded to be added to the text, and I've never had much of a strong will...
> 
> hope you'll like it like I did while writing.
> 
> with love, 
> 
> me.

> _truly it is inconceivable the City is still defending itself_

  
I counted to ten in my mind and opened my eyes, taking in the variety of new data. John always says that I look like a man dying of thirst that had the opportunity to finally get a sip of fresh water. his metaphor proved to be quite accurate because, in a way, I was in a state of a permanent thirst for information.  
I made sure not to hurry with my explorations; my eyes wandered through the small, but cozy looking flat we were in. the flat belonged to none other than Mrs Hudson, and the woman insisted on inviting us for tea. one thing led to another, and soon she showed us the flat we were currently in.  
"the one on the left is mine.", John said, nudging me with his elbow, and pointing with his chin towards the old-fashion red chair filling up the space that stood not so far from the fireplace. the chair stood in opposition to the completely different piece of furniture, leather-bound grey armchair that had a steel frame.  
"knew you'd like this one.", Mrs Hudson smiled affectionately when I sat down at the modern chair. "found it in some charity shop on Piccadilly. Frank didn't like shopping, but he never regret buying quality stuff."

Frank. not so dear for the priceless Martha Hudson and already an ex-husband that mercifully allowed her to keep the townhouse on Baker Street after their divorce. made an impression of a quiet and well-behaved homebody that loved Wagner's music and cats. that was the Frank that all the neighbours knew, but the reality wasn't so pure. in reality Frank was a smuggler of all sorts of good known to humanity, though he specialized in every type of the substance that changed perception, but I wouldn't call it good.  
Frank was, however, a painfully real danger if Mrs Hudson's exceptionally thick layer of foundation is anything to go by. I clenched my fists. even after their divorce he's still the wife-batterer. well. someone would have to assure him that was the last thing he did as a free man.  
"...Sherlock? darling, you're scaring me.", I finally heard John's call. he was bent over me, his face speaking of worry, and he looked like he just said something. damn.  
"what?", I asked. my voice has gone a bit hoarse for some reason, and the muscles tensed uncomfortably. John went to kitchen to make some tea. "where's Mrs Hudson?"  
"oh, she went out about an hour ago, said she was meeting her sister, but told us to feel like home."  
I nodded in a gesture that was meant to be a nod if one cared enough to squint their eyes.  
"so, are you gonna tell me?"  
I threw a raised brow at him, but he didn't see it. which, obviously, didn't stop him from answering me.

_oh, John. you have no idea how amazing you truly are._

"what were you thinking about. you went somewhere far for two hours."  
"I need to call Mycroft.", I answered dismissively, jumping up from my chair. John shot me a look that clearly said excuse-my-minikin-mind-but-what-are-you-doing. his face was enough for any comment. "what? can't I call my own brother?"

he smiled at me, and I rolled my eyes. my own boyfriend doesn't believe in my good intentions. oh well. "I've got a task for our domestic Stalin."  
his face was still blank while he worked out the inner workings of my brain. "Sherlock... are you just trying to hire Mycroft to do some donkeywork?"  
"melodramatic as always, John."  
Mycroft picked up after the first signal. "how ARE you, brother dear?"  
I still can't believe I said that, but the devil drives when the needs must.

*

JOHN

"Sherlock?"  
"mmm?"

in the darkness of the bedroom, talking seemed like some kind of crime. I didn't want to break the bubble we were both currently in - in some way, everything inside of the bubble was protected better than money in a Swiss bank. us above all. I sighed.  
my chest was Sherlock's favorite place; he liked to fall asleep with his head there and one of his legs weaved between mine's. his territorialism reminded me cat's - I once read that every cat split his territory into three separate areas: isolation where it can relax; activity where it plays the most in, and the rest is like a corridor between the first two zones. every change disturbs the perfect harmony and is a source of stress for the feline.  
only, Sherlock didn't emotionally attach to places in space. no. I know for a fact that he liked our earlier flat, but he left it without any sort of regret or sentiment. maybe he didn't think it was his territory, only a place he temporarily lived in?

"stop thinking so much, I'm trying to sleep.", he murmured very cat-like. "I think you already realize the true depth of my affection towards your person, but please don't ask me to figure out what you were thinking about at this time of night."  
I rolled my eyes. as usual with Sherlock, his knack for drama plays the main role. "I just wanted to say that I liked what you did for Mrs Hudson."  
he blushed a bit at the praise, and I liked him blushing. I always made sure to compliment him as much as I could to keep it there.  
"I don't know what you're talking about.", he bit his lower lip and tried to cover his reddened face.  
"ohh, you do.", I used my prettiest smile and tightened my embrace to not let him slip out. "come here, I want to give those mad lips a kiss."  
that was the one thing he agreed very quickly to. I liked to think that for some reason, I acquired an ability of speaking fluently his language. no idea how I managed that. maybe I discovered pennicilin as Alexander Fleming in one of my previous beings?

from my supine position, I quickly found myself in the one above him. and he was looking at me wide-eyed - his sleepiness went somewhere far, changed into a flame. I touched his cheek with my fingertips, and he, just like a real cat, leaned into my touch. soon our lips sealed in a passionate kiss.  
"you're the most beautiful being in the world.", I whispered reverently, drinking in every square centimetre of his skin. "I'm going to show you just how much I love you. I'm going to worship your entire body now, from your lashes to fingertips, and I'll say why you should NEVER change. and we're going to make love tonight differently. slowly."  
"slowly?", he asked hoarselly.  
"slowly. to let me tell you all about why I love you. I'll repeat it long enough for you to finally lose all your doubts."  
"oh, John.", he sighed, wrapping me in his long arms. I think _I_ was his territory.

*

I looked at my covered in lovebites body and for the first time in forever, I thought that maybe I wasn't as bad as I believed myself to be. surely, John wouldn't invest all his time and emotions in someone who wouldn't be able to reciprocate some of his feelings?  
my eyes shifted to John's side of the bed. it was empty. I burrowed my face in his pillow, nose picked some leftovers of his smell and my hand touched something stiff that proved to be a piece of paper. intrigued, I pulled it out and discovered it was a single piece of paper folded in the middle with a word Mycroft on top. it must've been written by John. not wasting anymore time, I quickly tapped a text to my brother; his answer came instantly. he was going to come in 5 minutes, and funny enough, he was true to his word. what surprised me, though, was that he wasn't on his own. no. as a matter of fact, Greg Lestrade tagged along.

_his third day without sleep, and it wasn't solely caused by sexual activities my brother finds pleasurable; in underway of his eighth coffee since dawn, carries a box the fat one didn't want to touch even if it wasn't too heavy for him to lift..._

"could you stop it? watching you deducing is physically painful.", Mycroft rolled his eyes at me.  
"could you stop bringing your dog to my flat? imagining the things you do to each other is worse than listening to the music John persists on calling classic.", I made a face while Mycroft pursed his lips, but didn't take the bait.  
1:0, fatso.

while we bantered, Lestrade wordlessly left the box on the rug between our respective chairs and was listening to our talk in silent amusement. I kneeled before the average looking box that without doubt kept some sort of message from John. "he wanted me to give it to you after his leaving."

I nodded eagerly, trying to untie the overly-complicated knot John left me. after I finally managed to do it, I uncovered the cardboard and looked inside. at first, there was only darkness, but I put my hand inside and felt incredibly soft material under my fingertips. it turned out to be luxurious greatcoat made of graphite wool interspersed with blue. as if it wasn't already enough, besides being perfectly fitted to my body, there was a label with my name on it in the general area of waist. John would have to pay quite the money to get it for me.  
Belstaff on my arms was a pleasurable weight that reminded me of John himself - it smelled of the cologne I picked out for him myself.

there was also a letter waiting for me on the very bottom of the package.

_my love,  
_

_I'll already be in the barracks when you get it. I wanted for you to finally stop running around London in your pjs. don't worry, I haven't robbed a bank._

_but I didn't get it just because I wanted to protect the only precious thing I've ever had in my life. most of all, I wanted to make it a bit easier for you, the beginning of your new life. I wanted for you to have something that would trigger good memories of yours truly and everything that is good in you. because you ARE a good man, Sherlock Holmes. you're just a bit lost. but that's not bad, being lost is a vital part of growing. also, I wanted to make the separation easier, because we're going to meet in a few weeks._

_the Belstaff is also a promise I wanted to give you. a promise that I would come back. to you._

_but before I do it, I would like you to talk to Greg. (LESTRADE) I think he has a few interesting cases for you.  
  
_

_write to me soon._

_love,_

_John._


	3. epilogue.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things - as always - get a bit messy with our boys, but it turns okay in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's all from me, folks. this here is unbetaed, and sure, that's an epilogue, but I wouldn't call it conventionally happy. things happen, but know that they're going together through the issues, so I would call that a draw?  
> thank you for reading, leaving kudos or comments, it means to me more than I'll ever be able to say. thank you. this one's for you. see you around.

> **_and if the City falls but a single man escapes_ **  
>  **_he will carry the City within himself on the roads of exile_ **  
>  **_he will be the City._ **

  
_Kandahar, Afghanistan._

  
_please, God, let me live. let me see him one more time..._

*

JOHN

there's not much I have a memory of. I can only remember my own screaming. I've never felt such pain, and I was pretty sure that my screams were a true challenge to one's eardrums. the entirety of my stay at the ward melted into one endless day, and the painkillers they gave me enveloped my mind first in a subtle, then in a frustrating fog.  
there's a one thing I'm sure of, though. I wasn't alone.

*

"it was a trap, Mr Holmes."  
"how many casualties?"  
"two died on a spot and two injured, sir."  
"tell Smith to make himself useful and call the families."  
"yes, sir. right away, sir. but you should know that John Watson was one of the injured ones."

that was the precise moment I found myself with a craving to send a few of my men to Tierra del Fuego. "...fuck."  
"sir?"  
"tell me, Collins", I said after a few long minutes; unfortunately, I couldn't mask my anger. "how long have you been working for Her Majesty's government?"  
"er... there will be five years in September, sir."

"don't you think that more than five years of experience of working in the diplomacy of the United Kingdom you have the obligation of INFORMING your supervisor if anything happened to the person you were monitoring? or was it too much for you to manage? did I put too much on you, Collins? or maybe you no longer want to work for the Queen? would you like to be civillian once more, Collins? you should've told me, I would've found your replacement like that."

"no, sir. I'm not sick of working for the country. I'm sorry, sir. I promise I won't make the same mistake twice."  
"that's your last chance, Collins. otherwise I'll do everything I can to secure your new working position in Tierra del Fuego."

"...yes, sir."  
"how's John Watson, then?"  
"unconscious, sir. he lost a lot of blood, and he would've died if it wasn't for private Murray. he pushed him out of the harm's way in the last possible moment, that's why he received a bullet to the left shoulder instead of heart. he's being transported to the nearest hospital in Kandahar as we're speaking."

"did private Murray survive?"  
"no, sir. he bled to death before they found him."  
"if I remember correctly, Murray left a wife in London. make sure that the widow gets any help she might need, and organize the full ceremonial funerals for the dead."  
"right away, sir. is that all?"  
"for now. keep me informed of any change."

not waiting for his answer, I disconnected the call, and reached out to my drinks cupboard, pulling out the best whiskey. this is going to be a long night.

*

Sherlock found out about the incident in the worst possible way - from the television. he took in the news more or less the way one should expect of him. after his visit my office would ever be the same room; my brother had the Holmes' blood in his veins, after all.  
"you weren't going to send him into an active warzone!", Sherlock shouted, angrily throwing my commemorative snow ball next to the Queen's portrait. the glass spattered in all directions quite spectacularly, I must admit. "why would you need all those minions if they can't even protect him properly?!"  
"how many times do I have to explain that I'm only allowed to suggest his supervisors the right path? I don't have enough influence to make them do what I want, Sherlock. do you think John would be very delighted if he knew how many of my men were observing him?"  
"I don't give a fuck, Mycroft! I only wanted for him to be safe, that was the only thing I asked of you!"  
he breathed heavily, from the effort, stress and anger that could kill. luckily, the look can't take lives, but that could change someday in the future.  
of course, he pulled his cigarettes and lit one, and shot a rised eyebrow at my disapproving look.

his attention for the matters of health is striking.

*

I remember John. this time, I had a weird sense of deja vu - him instead of me in the hospital bed, and it was surreal beyond measure. because John, with his lively nature and hunger for experiences, connected to various machines monitoring his body functions, was a dissonance. his place was by my side at all times, not under fire in a distant desert country in the middle of chaos.

I could only honour my part of the promise.

*

there was a hand in my hair, a hand I couldn't confuse with any other hand in the world. but I wasn't sure of anything anymore.  
that was the first sensation after opening my eyes, the touch and the pain shooting through my whole body. it felt like burning, and I don't even know when I started to scream.  
"does anyone in this Godforsaken place own more than a half of their brain? or the shamans already stopped teaching how to think?"  
I was right for once. someone from the up high was still there, listening to me. I closed my eyes, and - despite the surrounding chaos - focused on listening to the only voice that mattered.  
when I came to my senses few hours later, the fever was gone for a bit, and the dancer's slim fingers were threaded through those that belonged to a soldier.

*

I finally felt the familiar warmth, directly connected to the person of a small blond man. he calmed down enough to relax tense muscles under my touch. his breath kept me alive as well; I think that if it wasn't for him, I wouldn't find enough strength to face the situation. "you're here. alive. I made it in time."

*

watching John sleep will probably never stop fascinating me; the process is a bit supernatural when it comes to him. quite ironic, I've always held unconventional in a bit of contempt, but now I'm finding myself in a place where I feel the need to protect everything I can't fully grasp with my mind. and I don't really mind. no. it's become an indispensable part of my life.

my entire world shifted uneasily in his dream, clinging to me even closer, and exposing himself at the same moment by dropping the thin blanket that were supposed to give him warmth. I covered him with the Belstaff and heard his quiet sigh when he blissfully dove into a deep sleep.

*

I hated that place that reminded me of a parasite that happily lived inside of me. every minute of consciousness was getting harder for me to stay of sound mind - I felt encircled from all directions, just like in the desert, in the moment just before the IED going off. my ears filled Bill's inhuman screams, and I felt something warm on my face, something that was his blood. after that, there was only a strong bump, and I suddenly lost feeling in my left arm. it didn't even feel like getting a bullet at first; I realized it much later, when the world became a blur and I couldn't do anything about it. I still feel the stench of death, and I don't think I'll ever manage to get rid of it.

but now the sound of the familiar bariton was demanding my attention. I heard him through the poor walls of sleep carrying the sounds of explosion and an unbearable heat creeping in through the window. but I could only understand some of his words, like 'transport', 'plane' or 'wound', followed by a long silence that was only broken by Sherlock himself appearing by my bedside. he was infuriated enough not to wait for any of my questions. or me opening my eyes.  
"those imbeciles are attempting to threat me with shortening your visiting hours if I won't stop watch every move they make.", he said on one long breath, and I looked at him, unable to stop the smile blooming. "as if that could hold me back from being beside you."  
incapable of finding the right wording, I tightened my hold on his hand and he did the same. some things simply don't change, thank God.

*

shattered coracoid process. grazed subclavian artery. one, precisely aimed bullet ensured my honorable discharge and no future as a surgeon. a surgeon has to have solid hands, it's his most important feature. he can be an outsider without a moral compass, but he has to be a calm man while under stress. his hands can't shake. mine - even after a long physical therapy I simply can't wait to have - will never be steady again.

*

there passed a whole week after the surgery before Mycroft helped me to take him home. he didn't use more than eight words during our journey. that New John was a striking opposite of the one I used to call _My_ John. My John brought a light with himself every time he entered the room; the light he healed every suffering soul with. My John healed with his smile and compassionate look of his heaven-like eyes. My John recognized all the situations that respectively needed his words or silence. the New John didn't glow, and his eyes didn't contain the compassion anymore. the New John made an impression of a man lost in the world that suddenly grew around him. the New John had nightmares. _the New John was a broken man_.

*

John slumped down on the couch. his face was once again crying, just like when I woke up in the hospital after ODing in some of the holidays. and he had wrinkles, so many wrinkles.  
"tea?", I asked to lighten the atmosphere a bit. he shook his head no, and he just left the room, murmuring something about sleeping. I heard his steps on the stairs to the spare room, and I knew I couldn't leave him all alone. that's why I didn't.

he was sitting motionlessly on the bed, staring in the space, but when he noticed I followed him up, he pursed his lips in irritation.  
"don't pay me any attention, it's like I'm not here.", I said, sitting down on the chair at the head of the bed.  
"I wanted to be alone.", he answered at last. "there are always people around me since the Kandahar incident."  
"you should get some sleep."

after a long contemplation, he reluctantly took off all his clothes except of the vest and boxers, and lied on the bed that was undoubtedly made by Mrs H. I drew the curtains without a word. when I sat down once again, he reached for me with his good hand. "thank you."  
"think nothing of it, John."  
he smiled with effort. "will you tell me something? anything, really. I won't fall asleep without the sound of your voice; I listened to you every night in Afghanistan."  
"of course I will, my love. do you know that in the ancient times, all the participants of the olimpic games ate honey? they believed it boosted their chances for winning."

he was fast asleep before I finished my second sentence. and the phone in my pocket shrilled, informing me I just received a text; I slowly took it out to find out it came from Lestrade.

_how's John? GL_

I rolled my eyes, answering him and beginning the following discussion:

_just like you would be if they took away from you the possibility of working in the Yard and sleeping with my brother. SH_

_I'll pretend you didn't say that. GL_

_oh, my endless gratefulness. SH_

_hilarious. you better take care of my friend. GL_

_I'm not an idiot, George. SH_

_...GREG!_

_knowing how did your mother name you isn't on the top of my priority list right now, Lestrade. SH_

_I suddenly developed the new levels of respect for John, that man must be a saint. GL_

_knowing John, he would say you're exaggerating. SH_

_he would, our John. GL_

another text came when I was in the middle of writing furious message that was meant to remind the inspector that I didn't share with anyone, especially with people who voluntarily have sex with my brother.

_my bad, YOUR John. GL_

_MY John needs sleep right now, and your constant texting is going to disturb it. I'm sure we're both mature enough for you to know that I'll unleash Mummy on the both of you. SH_

_...you wouldn't dare. GL_

bingo.

_would you risk it? SH_

he didn't dare say anything more on the matter. good old-fashioned blackmail never disappoints.


End file.
